


Clean

by slipgoingunder



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: BUT NO PLOT, Canon Compliant - Star Wars: The Force Awakens, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Hair Washing, Kylo Ren's Mysterious Dirty Face, Porn with Feelings, Rey looking fresh and clean, Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker Trailer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 18:52:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18644044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipgoingunder/pseuds/slipgoingunder
Summary: Why was Kylo Ren's face so dirty in that one still shown at the SWCC panel? And what is Rey going to do about it?A little plotless porn-with-feelings fic inspired bythis @selunchen artand this @selunchen art detailandthis mysterious photo.





	Clean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [selunchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/selunchen/gifts), [delia-pavorum (literaryminded)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryminded/gifts).



> For two amazingly talented people who I admire _kind of a lot_ and who have patiently read a lot of my dumb words and helped make them better. READ THEIR FICS. 
> 
> This was very tasteful. Until the artist requested "more dicks." 
> 
> Ma'am, you can have one dick. It's the only one you'll ever need. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Please follow and like and ko-fi[ selunchen](https://twitter.com/selunchen/) because she truly brings so much amazing art to the community. **
> 
>  
> 
> [I've never attempted something remotely canonverse, or this...devoid of ridiculous banter. This is a very different style for me (do I have a style?), so set your expectations to "low." Also this is un-beta'ed and pretty much un-edited.]

[](https://twitter.com/selunchen/status/1117058884789854210%20rel=)

"How did you get so dirty?"

She stands at the entrance to the cave, the harsh, familiar glare of an unrelenting sun warming her back. 

Ben turns his head to look at her. His mouth doesn't open, but his gaze says— _something_. 

Rey has grown accustomed to his reticence. For the first time in her life, she has people to talk to. _Friends_. 

_And yet._

She still finds herself drawn to him. Again and again. Despite the sensible protests lodged by her brain. By her survival instincts. This man, who—according to the other members of the Resistance—is sullen and undeserving. An unwelcome, but necessary presence among their ranks. 

It helps.  
It affords them time alone.  
For _training_. 

That's what they've been calling it. It always begins with actual training, anyway. 

Maybe that's why Ben appears to be caught off-guard by her quiet, tentative approach with a wooden bucket and cloth. They've never started like this, without sparring or arguing or letting unspoken feelings explode into the physical. 

It directly contradicts thousands of years of Jedi teaching and philosophy, but there's no one here to stop them now. Sometimes Rey thinks there ought to be someone bursting in, warning them, telling them _no_. 

But there isn't.  
They're carving out something new.  
Something they both seem to need.

He continues to watch her as she steps into the cave, where it's cool and dark and the closest they'll get to privacy while there's still a makeshift base within shouting distance. 

Ben doesn't need to tell her why his face is marked up with dirt and grime and sweat and blood. He almost looks bruised from this angle. He's had to do things—kill, _a lot_ —for a cause she's not sure he even believes in. There are times when the Resistance needs him to be the same relentless attack dog Snoke had trained. Does it make a difference that someone else is commanding him? Is there a voice inside that still whispers _monster_?

It's odd to think about him taking orders. But then, somewhere, deep down, Rey knows that there's a larger purpose to all of it. And it has nothing to do with Poe or the Resistance leadership. Maybe not even Leia. 

Some tiny, inexplicably loud and clear voice in her heart screams that he does it for her. Not because of the _training_ , but because he feels—

Well, she tries not to think about it. 

Rey sits next to him, on the rough ledge, setting down the bucket. He's still regarding her with curiosity—almost suspicion—in his dark eyes. His discomfort, tangled with longing, ripples through the force, clouding her senses. She reaches out to cup his chin and he instinctively pulls away. 

"I came here to be alone." There's a roughness to his tone. Frustration painted over with shame. 

He knows as well as she does that they can never be truly alone. 

She touches the side of his jaw again, gently turning his head. Maybe he _is_ a bit bruised. 

His breathing is loud. Heavy. 

“You’re filthy,” she says, reaching for the damp cloth with her other hand. He still flinches a bit when she touches it to his forehead. It’s not because he’s hurt. It’s just the touch. The tenderness of it. 

They’re not _tender_ with each other.As a rule. 

“Not as effective as a real 'fresher with a sonic shower. But this was good enough for me on Jakku.”

“I'm sure it was very effective.” He quirks an eyebrow, ever so slightly. Rey doesn’t need the force to know that he’s picturing her as a dirty scavenger: a girl who picked through literal garbage to survive—and looked like it. 

She continues dabbing at his temple, squeezing the cloth slightly to let tiny rivulets of water run down the side of his face and off his chin. 

“Take this off,” she says, tugging at the restrictive neckline of his heavy tunic. “It needs cleaning anyway.” Dropping the cloth back in the bucket, she gets up on her knees, the rough texture of the rocky ledge poking through the thin fabric of her leggings. 

He draws back slightly, almost defensively, but doesn’t move to stop her.

It hasn’t happened like this before—slowly, methodically. She undoes the fasteners— _why does he still insist on dressing like a kriffing prince?_ —one by one. He looks at her, not assisting, just observing, almost like he’s watching it happen to someone else. 

 

 

*

 

 

Helpless.

He’s helpless before her.

There’s no one else on this horrid, dusty base who he allows to so much as look him in the eye for longer than a moment. But when she does _literally anything_ to him, he just can’t—

Sparring is different: he relies on muscle memory. He quiets the cacophony of his mind, moving through the right motions at the perfect time. It’s when their weapons clash so perfectly and precisely against one another that she respects him. Almost...admires him. Maybe. 

Even when her mind is open to him, which is rare now, something about her heart remains opaque. She has _feelings_. About him. Expressed in frantic, clumsy movements _,_ rather than words. As does he. 

They never speak about it. 

Not while they're tearing into each other's clothing.  
Not while he has her up against a wall. Or over a table.  
Or after, when they quickly dress again and Rey combs her fingers through her hair and attempts to reproduce her new hairstyle without a mirror. 

He never tells her the buns are crooked. 

Maybe it always happens fast because she doesn’t want to linger on it. She wants to get the urges out so that she can move on with her day and her routine. She's in demand with the Resistance—busy, like him. But the leadership doesn't ask the same things of her. 

They know not to. 

So he doesn't mind coming back to this barren planet—somehow all dull colors, but irritatingly bright. He doesn't mind returning, covered in the blood of other...beings? Other monsters?He doesn't mind being marked with the dirt and grime of other worlds, where the soil is dark and dense. 

As long as Rey doesn't have to wash this off her skin at the end of a mission, he doesn't mind. 

Which makes it awful that she's holding a damp cloth to his scarred and freshly bruised face, confronting it all, anyway. 

He hates that he can't bring himself to stop her from undressing him. It's almost like he's her doll— _did she have dolls?_ —and she desperately wants to _care_ for something. To bring it to life with her touch. 

And she's never touched him like this: softly—fingers barely skimming the surface of the skin she's exposed. He's far too pale and delicate for this place. He feels her thinking it, not through the bond— _still closed_ —but because of the way the corner of her mouth curves up ever so slightly as her callused fingertips brush across his chest. 

She must feel his breath stuttering, with her hand resting near his lungs and his traitorous racing heart. Without saying a word, she lifts his right hand—mercifully untouched by the blood and mud thanks to his gloves—and holds it to her own chest. 

Her pulse is similarly erratic, but her breathing is steady. Like she's in control of something, merely carrying out a plan. 

She moves a bit closer, sitting up higher on her knees, and pulls at the closure on the waistband of his pants. 

"Take them off." Well, she's direct. Apparently on Jakku, there'd been little opportunity for tactful negotiation. 

Ben wants to ask her why. He knows; but he wants to hear it, all the same. 

Instead, he silently shifts his weight so that she can drag the heavy fabric down his legs. 

Nothing like this has ever happened before. To him. 

It's happened to other people. People he's vaguely aware of on the periphery of his mind. People who go about their lives with occupations and families and cultural traditions. People who hear loving words and receive gentle caresses from those who care about them. For some people, this happens every day. It's just a part of their existence. They get _used to it_. They _expect_ goodness and caring. 

So if he can't quite turn the corner from shock to appreciation, it's because he can't quite believe that Rey is almost kneeling astride him, still fully clothed, while he's left—vulnerable—in his underwear. 

She's leaning forward—leaning _in_ , really. Almost as if they'll—

She places her palms against his chest and pushes, forcing his torso lower, until he's propped up on his elbows. 

“Close your eyes.” He obeys without a second thought, ready— _eager_ , maybe—for this particular barrier to be crossed. 

They’ve never kissed in the course of _training_. She avoids his face, altogether—as if she doesn't want to risk looking him in the eye, or sharing any kind of momentary gaze that might betray an emotion.

But now, with his eyes shut, he lets his mind paint a picture of Rey, hovering just above him, lips parted, a little scared, letting her eyes close, too, as she leans closer. 

_Closer_. 

He can feel her breath. 

_Yes_. 

"Hold still." 

His body jerks involuntarily as the water runs along his hairline and down his scalp. 

" _What the f—_ "

"Shh." She touches his face again and the calming effect is immediate. It's not the force. But it's similarly powerful. "What did you think I was about to do, Solo?"

Rey continues to pour the water over his hair, shielding his forehead with her other hand. She's protecting his face from _water_ , even though she must know that he could have easily been decapitated on this last mission.

"Nothing," he says, quietly, when the stream of water stops and she runs her hand through his soaking hair. 

"Your lips were parted like that for no reason, then?" She spreads her fingers and presses them to his scalp before continuing the repetitive motion, tugging lightly. 

"Just breathing." 

It's torture, knowing this will end at any moment. She'll pull her hand away and sit up. Maybe give him a long, confusing look before stepping away from the ledge and out of the cave. 

She pulls a bit harder, forcing his head to tip back slightly.

"I'm glad you're still breathing."

 

 

*

 

 

Ben stops breathing. 

She can feel the way his chest stops dramatically rising and falling underneath her—the way his nervous energy almost vibrates off his skin. It's written all over his face. 

_This is why he wears a mask. This face._

It's too expressive. Too revealing. She almost doesn't want to look at him like this. He's somehow so solid and strong, but also so _weak_. 

He swallows and she watches his throat bob nervously. 

It's a heady sensation—having this much power over him in this precise moment. They're equals in every respect...except for right now. 

She wonders if, he, too, is thinking about the first time they ever spoke. How—maybe—he felt very powerful, with her restrained, scared, and confused. When he thought nothing of invading her mind, as if it was his force-given right. 

They keep their minds closed now. It's...easier. They invade each other's bodies, instead. 

Rey smiles a tiny bit. Maybe it eases his nerves; maybe it worsens them. 

But she can also feel his... _firmness_ where she's still kneeling. 

And she has needs of her own. 

So she leans back slightly and opens her cross wrap and undershirt, not bothering to remove them completely. Before she can reach down, Ben's hands grasp for her leggings, tugging them down with none of the careful restraint she'd used to undress him. Rey braces herself above him while he frantically dispenses with his own undergarment. 

She slows down her movements as she sinks down onto him, letting their eyes meet in a long, lingering gaze. They've never looked at each other before in this particular moment. She's never noticed the way he watches her with a mixture of appreciation and disbelief, his eyebrows slightly raised, as if he’s still a bit surprised that she’s still willingly choosing to share the physical space with him. 

He grips her waist with both hands just a little too tightly. She covers the back of his right hand with her palm and moves it lower, onto her hip as she takes him in fully. 

It’s different, now that it’s not a rushed, heated encounter. When they move slowly she can feel... _everything_ : the parts of her that welcome him easily or resist, the way she involuntarily contracts around his length, the stretch that feels sharp from certain angles. They’ve never taken enough time to figure out what positions feel good, but now…

 _It feels_ good. It feels so—

“Rey, you’re—mmhh, can I—”

“You can move, you can—ohhh.”

There’s barely any motion at all; maybe it’s friction or dumb luck. But their eyes meet and it’s like they both know they’ve struck something worth remembering.

Rey has always believed him to be a good student: the kind of person who can memorize facts and repeat them five standard years later. So when she looks down and sees him staring at the place where they’re joined—brow furrowed, as if deep in concentration—she knows he’s saving this. Storing it in his memory for next time. 

There’s a next time, like this, then. 

_Yes_. Yes, a next time. With this same pleasurable ache building up and swelling inside her. 

He’s thrusting up into her in controlled, measured movements, his skin slapping into hers in a steady rhythm. She places a hand down on the smooth, pale expanse of his chest, leaning forward and arching her back. 

He lets out a low groan as she uses this new leverage to roll her hips into his, finding the right pace after a few clumsy tries. 

“Rey—can I...let me touch you.” 

With her other hand, she grabs his wrist and guides him inside her open shirt. His fingers quickly work their way under her bindings, freeing one breast and then the other. She closes her eyes and feels the cool, damp air of the cave against her bare chest as the fabric gets torn away. 

"More...I need—"

Suddenly she feels the muscles of his torso contract as his sits up, drawing himself toward her and taking one of her nipples into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue. 

He's never put his mouth on her before. She tries not to face him when they're _training_. It's easier when she can't see the look in his eye. It's too intimate. It's too—

His hands seem to be everywhere at once—moving up and down the length of her back, pulling her hair out of the lowest bun, ripping at the cotton of her shirt. 

Rubbing circles into the spot just above where they're joined. She can't stifle a moan with his fingers there. There's a greedy, hungry feeling in her belly. 

She feels resilient—almost proud to be taking him like this—but also like she might fall apart at any moment. _Can he feel it, too? The imminent breaking point?_

"Please..." she cries, surprised by the volume of her own voice, the way it echoes around the walls of the cave. 

She feels her mind loosening its iron grip on the bond, like a chain unraveling—slowly, at first, and then faster. 

Maybe he _can_ feel it, because he grabs her hip again, helping her adjust slightly to find that certain angle that just feels so—so— 

"Rey. Rey, I'm—are you—" he stutters between panting breaths.

She nods rapidly, sinking down on him again and again, letting the friction of his fingers carry her up to the edge. He lets her linger on the precipice for a split second, hanging by a thread, until he moves his fingers against her again, pushing her over. She feels nothing but the purest, most perfect physical sensation for a few seconds—no worries, no panic, no fears over what any of this might mean. As the feeling begins to subside, there's a fresh swell of it, crashing into her brain like a rogue wave. She feels his loss of control, followed by a rush of euphoria, and then utter exhaustion. 

They don't move apart in the moments afterward, when they're flushed and breathing heavily. 

It's foreign—almost _holding_ each other like this.

Rey decides she likes it better than quickly getting dressed and pretending the whole thing never happened. She senses his implicit agreement. 

Her fingers dig back into his scalp, pulling at his wet hair, forcing his head to tip back. She takes his face in her hands, looking down and seeing her own longing reflected back in his eyes. 

She leans her head down, as he tilts his chin up, hesitating for a beat before parting her lips and finding his, somewhere in the middle. 

When she kisses him, everything else seems to move at a different speed. It's not a frenzied thing at all. In fact, she's barely aware that they've ceased all other movement. The only thing she feels is the firm press of his tongue against hers; the way their lips fit together, breaking apart and finding each other, over and over. 

But soon there are other sensations, too: images, thoughts, emotions flooding her conscious. She sees herself: angry, strong and beautiful, clutching her saber in the forest, fighting to the death on the Supremacy, haltingly reaching out her hand to touch his fingers.

She feels his betrayal and rage at Luke and his saber pushing through Han's heart.

She watches the violence and brutality of his secretive missions—a form of penance that will never be enough. 

She understands his need to be cared for, to be loved despite everything—all the pain and disaster he's caused. All the sins he can never make right. 

He breaks the kiss, moving his head back until his eyes can focus on hers. She can sense his frustration through the bond. _It's not fair._ It's not fair for her to take on his pain. Will they never just... _kiss_? Like two people whose tortured minds aren't bound together until they lose track of their own thoughts and emotions? 

Touching his cheek again, she feels a smudge of dirt. Maybe she hadn't been so thorough with the cloth. 

"Maybe if we practice," she offers, brushing the dirt away, “we can keep it closed, even when we’re—”

“I don’t want to close it. It’s the only time I can feel—“ he pauses, working his jaw “—what I am to you. I want to _know_ _you_. But you shouldn’t have to know what I am. I’m not clean. I’ll never be clean.” 

Her water and damp cloth can't fully erase the streaks of dirt and blood that show faintly across his face in the rapidly depleting light of the setting suns. No matter how much much care and attention she applies to his wounds, there will always be the scars—the one she made the most prominent of all.

Rey gazes at him again.

“Some things mark you forever,” she says. _The stains, the scars, the painful lessons you can’t and shouldn’t forget._ “You take them inside and make them part of you. You share them with people w-who love you.” She stops herself, observing the way his eyes come alive at those words. “Not that I love you,” she adds. 

“You shouldn’t,” he agrees, while pulling her shoulders toward him. “You don’t deserve to take all that in. You’re already clean.”

They kiss again, slowly, letting their searching hands and open mouths express everything left unsaid...Until Rey suddenly pulls back, a faint hint of a smile spreading across her face.

"I've been picking through garbage my entire life, Ben. I don’t mind getting a little bit dirty.” 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
